Requiem of Snowfall
by White Star 2
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Mulder is feeling as depressed as ever. Will a guardian angel be able to show him that even if it's not such a wonderful life, it's better than the alternative?


Title: Requiem of Snowfall  
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)  
Rating: PG  
Classification: SRA  
Distribution: Anywhere. I don't mind. But let me know about   
it.  
Spoilers: Unusual Suspects, Travelers, Redux II, The   
Blessing Way, Paper Clip, Pusher, Tooms, Squeeze, but   
nothing big or not discussed-to-death from any of them.  
Keywords:  
  
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Mulder is feeling as   
depressed as ever. Will a guardian angel be able to show   
him that even if it's not such a wonderful life, it's   
better than the alternative?  
  
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully and the rest of the gang are   
1013's. It's A Wonderful Life belongs to Philip Van Doren   
Stern (story) and Frank Capra (director, producer). The   
parts of this that make you worry are mine.  
  
Author's Notes: I know this has been done to death by every   
series. I know it's been done a lot by fanfic writers. I   
know I don't have much chance to outdo anyone. But I wrote   
two scenes and liked it too much to drop it. Besides,   
anything worth doing is worth doing to death, right? Right!  
  
The story ad for this is at   
http://controlfreak.sandwich.net/Random/StoryAd1s.gif  
  
And send me lots and lots of feedback! Please!  
  
* * *  
  
Requiem of Snowfall  
by White Star 2  
  
Mulder's Apartment  
December 24, 1996  
11:02PM  
  
It was probably a lovely night outside, Mulder thought. It   
was Christmas Eve, and the ground was covered with fresh,   
loosely packed snow. It had snowed the night before, and   
the whole morning. The sky was probably cloudless. And   
starry. It was probably a wonderful night. But Mulder,   
sprawled on his couch, didn't see it. He added it to the   
list of things he'd missed in his life.  
  
He never really looked up anymore. Or around. Scenery was   
no longer beautiful. It was the means to someone's ends.   
Forests were hiding places. Mountains were vaults. Lakes   
were habitats, where mysterious creatures dwelt. He   
couldn't just look if he tried. And looking up... that was   
laughable. And when he did, he counted moving lights   
instead of still ones.  
  
And the same attitude could be applied to anything in his   
life, he noted. He was so busy running after the paranormal   
he'd completely forgotten about the normal. And, in the   
end, he'd thrown away his life. Thirty-five years of waste.   
All right, up to the age of twelve he was okay, but... not   
since.  
  
Everyone had their own madnesses, sure. But when the   
madness and the paranoia overshadowed the person within, it   
wasn't right. Was it right when they'd become the person   
within? No, of course not.  
  
Somehow he'd managed to find the only job that was well   
suited for someone as wrong in the head as himself. And, of   
course, he was always in danger of losing it. He'd made his   
career relying on outside help, not himself. He wasn't good   
enough to do it alone. Sure, he had his sources - there was   
Deep Throat, and there was X. And Maritia. But no one   
stayed to help him for very long. And soon enough, no one   
else would come, and he'd be left alone with work he   
wouldn't be able to do by himself.  
  
One thing alone saved his life from being useless and   
meaningless. Scully. If she had any interest in his work,   
it must have some importance. If she cared enough to stay   
for so long, he must've been more human than he imagined.  
  
But he wasn't even sure of that lately. It wasn't something   
she said or did, but he got the feeling that she'd rather   
be elsewhere sometimes. Doing work that didn't involve his   
life-long quest, that same quest that had hurt her so much   
already.  
  
He often wondered how he could've been selfish enough to   
drag her into all that. She was more important to him than   
anything else. And yet he endangered her again and again.   
Soon enough, her patience would run out and she would   
decide that she'd hurt herself enough times for him.   
  
All he'd brought with him wherever he went was death and   
pain. Scully, her sister, Deep Throat, X, his own father...   
he wondered how many more. How many lives was the truth   
worth? And the incomplete, misinterpreted truth he had?   
None.  
  
But he kept going, with the stakes so high. He had to. he   
had nothing else left but his work. His work that kept him   
locked up in the basement, and kept the name Spooky   
tattooed on his forehead. He never really had any respect   
from his colleagues. Once, maybe. Before they knew him.   
What was it about Spooky Mulder that was so unlikable? What   
was it that even Scully couldn't bear at times?  
  
And there was that unstable side of him - the side that had   
him running around enthusiastically and pushing everyone to   
their tolerance limit one moment and the next... the next   
moment he'd be playing with his gun like he was now,   
wondering if it would have been better to just end it...  
  
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Mulder looked up. There   
was a dark-haired man in a suit leaning against the kitchen   
doorframe.   
  
"Who are you?" Mulder asked, changing the aim of his gun.  
  
The stranger looked calmly down the barrel. He put down a   
black briefcase he was holding, then smoothed his tie with   
his palm. "Peter Shaiman."  
  
"How did you get in? Why are you here?"  
  
The stranger hesitated for a second looking for the right   
words. "God sent me."  
  
Mulder raised an eyebrow, then snorted. "God sent you? What   
are you supposed to be, my guardian angel?"  
  
"I suppose so, if you put it like that. I was sent to stop   
you from doing something really stupid. But I don't do this   
too often."  
  
"What, then, Mr. Shaiman, *do* you do?"  
  
"I'm a lawyer."  
  
"A lawyer? God sent down a lawyer as my guardian angel? I   
always figured I'd go to Hell for something, I just never   
knew hell would come looking for me."  
  
"Well, God sort of figured that in your case He needs to   
send down someone who can make a strong argument."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"About staying alive. Let's go for a walk."  
  
* * *  
  
The cold night air pierced Mulder's lungs. Had he been an   
outside observer, he would have been suspicious. Two men in   
black trenchcoats, walking silently side by side, late at   
night, on Christmas Eve. Neither he nor Mr. Shaiman said   
anything until they reached a park.  
  
"Why does God need lawyers in heaven?" Mulder asked. It was   
the first thing he could think of.  
  
"You'll know, all in good time."  
  
"Is that some sort of hint that I'm headed for heaven?"  
  
Shaiman smiled. "I'm not at liberty to comment."  
  
Mulder chuckled. "Lawyers..." Then he sighed. "But you   
know, at least your life has some meaning. You did some   
good. A lot of good, if you're more professional than you   
seem."  
  
"Actually," Shaiman said slowly, then paused. "I freed   
murderers, mostly."  
  
"So how did *you* get to heaven?"  
  
"I made a good case to get in."  
  
"Which was?"  
  
"That I also freed a few innocent people."  
  
"That's good to know."  
  
Shaiman nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I could have kept   
going for so many years if it wasn't for the occasional   
innocent man. Would have driven me crazy. Just like you   
would have gone crazy if you didn't stumble on a shred of   
the truth every once in a while."  
  
"But what good is a shred here and there? And to be hated   
and hunted..."  
  
"That's your life, and you brought it upon yourself."  
  
"Is that supposed to make it less awful?"  
  
"It's supposed to make you see the good in it, as well as   
the bad."  
  
"What good?" Mulder muttered.  
  
"There is good in your life," Shaiman said.  
  
Mulder sat down on a bench by what was a flower patch in   
the summertime. "No, there isn't. It's not even a life." He   
looked down at his hands, which he rubbed together to keep   
them from freezing. "Sometimes... sometimes I just wish   
that it was me instead of Samantha. She would've done so   
much more with a chance at life. She deserved it. It should   
have been me..."  
  
"It was," Shaiman said.  
  
Mulder looked up. "What?"  
  
"I get to do this if I have to. You were the one abducted."  
  
"You crazy bastard..." Mulder muttered. That's what he got   
for listening to complete strangers, especially on a night   
like this...  
  
"Please, just Peter will suffice." He reached his hand into   
his coat pocket and pulled out a yellowing newspaper   
clipping. He unfolded it and read, "Fox Mulder, age 12,   
disappeared from his home in the middle of the night. His   
parents were out of the house, and his sister, Samantha,   
age 8, says she recalls nothing from the events of the   
night. The police have ruled out kidnapping."  
  
"Let me see," Mulder grabbed the paper.  
  
"Dated November 29, 1973. That's a very good picture of   
you," Shaiman remarked as Mulder read the rest of the   
article. Mulder's jaw was clenched and his fingers gripped   
the paper so tightly they threatened to tear it. It   
couldn't be true. It simply couldn't be...  
  
Shaiman took a seat next to Mulder. He put the briefcase   
he'd dragged along on his knees and opened it. He took out   
a manila folder and handed it to Mulder. Mulder opened it.   
Inside was a police file and a picture of him from 1973.  
  
He scanned it. Reported missing on November 28, 1973, at   
2:21AM. File closed in '75. Reopened in both '79 and '84,   
once at the request of William Mulder and once at the   
request of Samantha Mulder. Presumed dead.  
  
"This can't be happening," Mulder barely let out.  
  
"Come on. I'll prove it to you."  
  
* * *  
  
It was so dark that Mulder thought it was just a trick of   
light; lightning or a street lamp blinking. When he looked   
around again he realized that it was no such thing and that   
he was beginning to think like Scully.  
  
"How did we get here?" Mulder demanded. Peter said nothing.   
"And why are we on the Vineyard?"  
  
"To see the family."  
  
Peter walked up to the window. While he waited for Mulder,   
he lifted both his feet, one at a time, to knee height and   
muttered something about mud and new shoes. Mulder looked   
through the window. After a few moments he realized that he   
wasn't breathing.  
  
He was looking right at Samantha.  
  
She was all grown up, almost like he'd imagined her,   
sitting in front of the fireplace. To talk to her would   
make this moment, dream or reality, perfect. "Samantha!" he   
yelled at the window. "Samantha!" One glass panel fogged   
up. Samantha didn't seem to notice anything.  
  
"She can't hear you," Peter said. Mulder ignored him and   
kept trying. "You don't exist. She can't hear you."  
  
Mulder stared at the morose face inside. She stared   
straight ahead. His mother came in moments later, a cup in   
her hand. She handed it to Samantha, who put it on the   
table without even stopping to look at it.  
  
Samantha smiled sadly at her mother. Mrs. Mulder sat down   
next to her and put her arm around her daughter. "Are you   
still thinking about him?"  
  
"It's hard not to," Samantha replied. "Especially at times   
like this, during the holidays."  
  
"We all miss him..."  
  
"It's not even that anymore," Samantha let her head drop to   
her mother's shoulder. "If he were dead, I could accept it.   
I just need to know what happened to him."  
  
"Your father will keep his word," Mrs. Mulder said, running   
her fingers through Samantha's thick curly hair.  
  
Outside the window, Mulder sighed. "They're happy," he said   
softly. "They have each other. And Dad."  
  
"No, they don't," Peter whispered.  
  
A spark lit in the dark behind Samantha. A tail of smoke   
dragged into the room behind a Morley's cigarette. "Dad,"   
Samantha turned around to face him. He smiled a wrinkled   
smile and sat down with them.  
  
"What the hell..." Mulder uttered.  
  
"Let me try to explain," Peter said. "After you were   
abducted, your father kept trying to find you. He wanted to   
know that you were alive. He endangered the secrecy of the   
project."  
  
"They killed him?"  
  
"They had no other choice." Mulder's face twisted into an   
expression of pain. "A year or so after he died your mother   
remarried."  
  
"What did Samantha say about it?"  
  
"She was okay with it. When it turned out that he was her   
biological father, she took it hard at first. But she   
accepted it in the end." Mulder nodded solemnly. "But when   
she found out that he knew about what happened to you,   
things got hot between the two. She's hardly been home for   
ten years. Until last year."  
  
"What happened then?" Peter said nothing and looked back in   
the window.  
  
"You promised," Samantha hissed. "I've done everything you   
asked me to! How much more do you want?"  
  
"Sam, honey," he put out his cigarette. "I'm not doing this   
for me. It's for the good of the project. We still need   
your help, and I'm still not sure you can be trusted with   
all the information. When the others trust you, I promise   
I'll explain it all."  
  
"I don't give a damn about your stupid project! He's dead,   
isn't he? He's dead and you're just going to keep using me   
for as long as you need me and then dispose of me just like   
you did to Mom's husband!"  
  
"Sam..."  
  
"Or did you have him killed so you can step in?"  
  
"Samantha!" Her mother snapped.  
  
"No, Mom, I did things so unimaginably horrible for him for   
this long, and I won't do it ever again!" She violently   
pulled herself out of her mother's grasp.  
  
"I just remembered why I don't come home for the holidays,"   
she muttered while grabbing her coat.  
  
Mulder left his place by the window and ran toward the   
front door. Samantha came out and marched angrily to her   
car. Mulder followed, but she didn't see him. He stood   
beside the car as she twisted the ignition key so violently   
he thought it would break. "Where the hell are you, Fox?"   
she whispered into the night before driving off.  
  
The question was left hanging in the air as Mulder watched   
the car shrink until it was just a light in the distance.   
"Where the hell am I?" Mulder wondered.  
  
"Ready to go?" Peter asked.  
  
"Why would she work with him?"  
  
"Because she loves you and she wants to find you. And she   
doesn't have the resources you had as an FBI agent."  
  
"So she sold out?"  
  
"What would you have done?"  
  
And light flashed around them again.  
  
* * *  
  
Mulder's eyebrows shot up toward his hairline when he saw   
the woman curled up in the chair with a book. "That's..."  
  
"Yes, it is," Peter said.  
  
"She's..." Mulder frowned at a ring on her finger.  
  
"Yes, she is."  
  
The hum of running water in the background stopped. The   
woman put down her book and untied her robe in a single   
tug. "I'm coming in," she yelled in the direction of the   
bathtub. "Ready or not!"  
  
"We don't have to stay for this, do we?" Mulder rolled his   
eyes.  
  
"This coming from a porn addict?" Peter chuckled. "It's   
just your ex-wife. Can't you be an adult about this?"  
  
"Never," Mulder replied as the scenery changed again.  
  
* * *  
  
"Where are we now?" Mulder demanded.  
  
"Arlington, Virginia," the "angel" answered.  
  
"Why are we here?"  
  
"Just wait and see for yourself."  
  
Mulder looked around the apartment. It was well lit and   
nicely decorated. Here and there he noted the hints of a   
professional decorator's work. And the place was   
immaculately clean. The Christmas tree in the corner seemed   
almost out of place in its surroundings. This lead him to   
conclude two facts about whoever lived here - they were   
rich and they didn't spend much time at home.  
  
A door opened from what appeared to be the bedroom and then   
closed. When the man turned his face to them, Mulder   
frowned. "Tom Colton. Why are we at his place? I'm sure   
that with me not around he's as much of an ass as ever."  
  
His angel stood there and said nothing. Colton sat down at   
the dining room table, in front of a pile of papers. He   
sighed and pulled out a pen.  
  
"You're sure he can't see or hear me?" Mulder asked.  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
Mulder smiled. He jumped and landed sitting on the   
comfortable leather couch. He put his legs up on the coffee   
table and put his hands behind his neck. "Okay, what am I   
supposed to be seeing?"  
  
Just then a key turned in the front door. Colton capped his   
pen and got up to greet whoever it was. The door opened.   
Mulder, with Colton's form and the walls blocking the view,   
couldn't see who it was. "Hi, honey," he said, and there   
was a sound of a quick kiss.  
  
"You wouldn't believe the kind of day I had," said a   
woman's voice. Mulder's jaw dropped.  
  
"Oh, please, tell me that's not--" Mulder whispered and   
slowly moved his hands from behind his neck. A small,   
red-haired figure appeared from behind Colton. Mulder felt   
a sting of slight jealousy. She unshouldered a purse and   
dropped it and a set of keys on the dining room table, next   
to Colton's papers.  
  
"Draining meetings today, Dana?" Colton asked.   
  
"Yes," she said. "Mostly with the dead." She paced around   
restlessly, her coat still on. "I got called in to do an   
autopsy after lunch. Strange case..."  
  
"What's this?" Mulder asked, while in the background   
something much like an X-File was being described. "What is   
Scully doing with him? And it's Christmas Eve... she should   
be with her family, not at work."  
  
"It's all about a ring," Peter said. Mulder looked at her   
left hand, massaging her neck as she paced around the room.   
A simple gold ring stood out. "With you not around, she   
went from Mrs. Spooky to Mrs. Colton. They dated for a   
while, two years ago, then got married. And he's been   
pulling strings in the Bureau to help her career. They both   
work days, nights, holidays, and don't seem too unhappy   
about it."  
  
"That's not like her."  
  
"It's not like Dana Scully. But Dana Colton is a very   
different person. A lot of character shaping moments never   
happened. And she's just as devoted to her work as ever,   
it's just different work than she did with you."  
  
Mulder turned his attention back to the "case report".   
"...Then some suits pulled me out for a meeting. In the   
middle of the autopsy!" She made large circles with her   
head.  
  
"Did it go well?" Colton smiled.  
  
"Not really. I told them to go to hell and never interrupt   
me when I have a scalpel in my hand." Mulder chuckled.   
Colton didn't seem quite as amused.  
  
"It took me three days to arrange that meeting for you.   
They were there to see you about a promotion!"  
  
Dana sighed. "I'm happy where I am right now, Tom."  
  
"That took a lot of resourcefulness on my part!" Colton's   
face was starting to turn red. "The least you could do is   
be thankful!"  
  
"That guy takes work way too seriously," Mulder whispered   
to Peter.  
  
"Reminds you of anyone?" Mulder rolled his eyes.  
  
"Well, the least *you* could do is tell me before you sic   
the higher-ups on me!" Dana yelled back at Colton.  
  
"Loving marriage," Mulder commented.  
  
"Well, if you want to spend your life chopping up corpses,   
fine! When you regret it, don't come running to me!"  
  
"I chose to do it! And if there's one thing I regret is   
that I haven't had the chance to chop you up yet!" Mulder   
saw the immediate regret as Dana realized what she'd said.   
Colton didn't notice it.  
  
"Why you..." he growled as his hand flew at Dana's face.  
  
Mulder started at him, fists raised. Peter put up an arm to   
block his path. "You can't do anything to intervene," he   
said.  
  
"That bastard..." Mulder muttered.  
  
Dana brought her hand up to her cheek. Her face was   
expressionless. "Dana, I..." Colton started, even more   
shocked than her. But she didn't say anything and neither   
did he. She grabbed her keys from the table and walked out.   
Colton dropped into a chair and buried his face in his   
hands.  
  
* * *  
  
Mulder looked around him. The Hoover building in DC. The   
fading in and out was starting to creep him out. "Let's   
go," Peter said and lead him into a room full of filing   
cabinets. "Take a seat," he pointed to a chair. Mulder sat,   
still shaken by what he had seen. He was starting to lose   
his patience with this crazy charade. Peter started pulling   
files out of the cabinets.  
  
"Here. Take a look."  
  
Mulder grabbed a file. "This is Modell." He ran his finger   
down the first page, then flipped to the next. "The case   
has been open for a long time."  
  
"He hasn't found his worthy adversary yet. And killed two   
agents so far - Frank Burst and Jerry Lamana."  
  
"Well, so much for them being alive with me not around."  
  
"Reggie Purdue is now the agent in charge of the case."  
  
"...At least he's not dead." Mulder took another file.   
"Eugene Tooms killed five people and disappeared."  
  
"All these," Peter raised the thick and still-growing pile   
of folders in his hand, "Remain unsolved because you   
weren't there to make the intuitive leap... or however it   
is that you do what you do."  
  
Mulder leaned back in the chair and dropped the folders in   
his hand on a small end-table. "Will you spare me the   
eyestrain of reading and just give me final figures?"  
  
Peter put down the folders in his hand. "Ninety-four   
killed, forty-one missing, and a position open for a top   
profiler after one was killed in a case that would have   
been yours."  
  
He paused. "And counting," Mulder muttered.  
  
"One more thing you should see," Peter said. Mulder sighed   
and pushed himself to his feet.  
  
Mulder dragged his feet all the way to the open area where   
the agents - those not locked away in the basement -   
worked. He looked for Scully's name on a desk, knowing he   
wouldn't find it. He did, though, find a name that almost   
made him growl in anger: Alex Krycek.  
  
"He works here?"  
  
"He's still waiting for the right time to backstab   
everyone, I suppose. He's worked here for more than two   
years - leaking information, of course, but hasn't crossed   
over to the other side completely. Not yet, at least."  
  
Papers of every kind littered the desk. Nothing there to   
indicate that the man had a life... other than a single   
picture frame in the corner of the desk. Mulder picked it   
up to look at it and almost dropped it in surprise.  
  
Peter glanced over, then looked away. "Your ex-wife is   
married to the rat. Tough." Mulder gritted his teeth.  
  
Mulder looked at the picture again. And again. Then he   
struggled with the thoughts of "What the hell went wrong   
with that relationship, anyhow?" After his mind had quieted   
sufficiently, he asked, "All right, now what?"  
  
Peter was about to answer when the sound of footsteps came   
from outside the room through the open door. Mulder   
listened closely. Women's shoes, or so it sounded. Mulder   
felt he knew whose, too.  
  
Scully walked with a blank expression and her head held   
high. There was a large red mark on her cheek that, Mulder   
thought, would be turning into quite a bruise in the   
morning.  
  
His first instinct was to hide himself behind the door as   
she walked past. Then he looked at Peter, who was putting   
back the picture he'd dropped on the desk when he'd rushed   
to the door just moments before. Mulder gave it half a   
thought, then took off after Scully.  
  
He walked close to her. Under normal circumstances she   
would be able to feel his breath on the back of her neck.   
He felt the need to protect her - she was his partner, and   
she'd been hurt. And he felt the helplessness of having to   
stand aside.  
  
He looked to see where they were going, and saw his angel   
standing by one of the doors. Mulder picked up his walking   
pace. He eyed the plaque on the door Peter was standing by.  
  
DANA SCULLY  
HEAD OF FORENSIC PATHOLOGY  
  
"Scully?"  
  
"She didn't like Colton all that much."  
  
"The name or the man?" Mulder muttered.  
  
Scully got to the door. Peter signaled Mulder to move back.   
He did. Scully picked out one of the keys in her bunch and   
unlocked the door. She stood for a long time, holding the   
open door and looking out into the hall. Mulder walked in,   
and Peter followed.  
  
Finally, she closed the door and sank into the chair behind   
her desk. She had an office not unlike Skinner's, Mulder   
noted. A large conference table, a few comfortable   
armchairs, and - nicely personalizing the place - a floor   
to ceiling library of medical texts.   
  
She sat there for what seemed like minutes, doing nothing.   
Her expression didn't change - still the same composed one   
she had worn both in the hall and when she had walked out   
of her apartment.  
  
When she finally moved, she raised a hand to the forming   
bruise on her face. It was as if by the push of a button,   
silent tears streamed down her cheeks.  
  
"That's enough," Mulder said. Peter didn't move. "Get me   
out of here."  
  
"All right," Peter said as Scully picked up the phone on   
her desk and started dialing.  
  
The last thing Mulder heard in that room was Scully's   
muffled voice whispering into the handset. "Missy?"  
  
* * *  
  
"Nothing else?" Mulder said.  
  
Peter didn't look kindly on the sarcasm. "Show's over. Now   
it's time for you to decide."  
  
"Decide?"  
  
"If this is really what you want."  
  
It should have been a no-brainer. People were hurting.   
Because of him. But they were in the real world, as well.   
And there was one thing that kept nagging in the back of   
his mind.  
  
"Where am I in this world?" He realized it ultimately came   
down to that - to his own selfish need to not feel the pain   
that his choice of a life had brought him. And maybe if he   
knew, he could find Samantha...  
  
"That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" Peter said. "No, I'm   
afraid that's one thing I can't tell you."  
  
"And Samantha - in my world - what happened to her?"  
  
"You have to find out by yourself."  
  
Mulder shook his head. "How long do I have to decide?"  
  
"Until sunrise. After that, it's a one way ticket. No   
exchanges, no refunds."  
  
"And you?"  
  
"I'll stay the same either way." And he vanished, leaving   
Mulder alone in the park. He strolled down the narrow paths   
for hours.   
  
With each step, his uncertainty grew. He'd never dreamed of   
having the chance to turn back time. He had the chance to   
give Samantha a life. This was as good as finding her, in a   
way.  
  
But would the Fox Mulder of this world think this, too?   
Where was he? Dead? A test subject, somewhere? A   
human-alien hybrid? Or maybe, he pondered the worst - maybe   
working for the smoking man and his friends. He never   
doubted that if he'd been approached at the right times in   
life he would have turned to their side...  
  
There was too much unknown in both these worlds. He wanted   
neither. Since that was not an option, he had to weigh them   
one against the other.  
  
He felt another surge of anger at Colton, and compassion   
for Scully. He couldn't leave her here, like this. And his   
sister, enslaved by the men he hated most. It was like a   
bad dream. Only it could be made very real. All he had to   
do was say the word.  
  
He closed his eyes and drove away all the selfish and   
irrational reasons in his head. He wanted to protect the   
people he loved. They didn't seem safe here. In a world   
where he was an FBI agent, and friend, not foe, he could do   
something to protect them. He could search for Samantha. He   
could be there for Scully. He could continue with his work.  
  
Then he opened his eyes and watched the sun rise.  
  
He turned his head to the side. Peter was sitting next to   
him, briefcase on his knees. "You've made up your mind?"  
  
Mulder nodded.  
  
* * *  
  
11:21PM  
  
Mulder opened his eyes. He sighed in relief to find that he   
was in his apartment. Everything was the same. And nothing   
was the same. Not in his head, at least.  
  
He was, at the same time, more confused and more   
clearminded, shaken and reassured, but he had a rush of   
energy. He had a cause and a will to follow it wherever it   
took him. It was a lot better than the alternative.  
  
He knew he'd probably regret this decision at times. He   
could have thrown himself into the unknown. He could have   
given so many a chance at life. But it was too late for   
that now, and he sure had what to live for.  
  
The phone rang. He fumbled for it in the darkness.   
"Mulder?"  
  
He smiled. "Scully. Where are you?"  
  
"My mother's place. We were just about to leave for Mass. I   
figured you'd be awake."  
  
"I'm not coming."  
  
She chuckled. "Merry Christmas, Mulder."  
  
"Merry Christmas, Scully."  
  
---  
  
Mulder smiled and went to sleep. 


End file.
